Liquor Love
by LostInLost18
Summary: SULIET ONE-SHOT. "You search for meaning in those eyes, because you know those eyes are the closest to a meaning your life is going to get." Set in the End but presents an alternative situation whereby Juliet and Sawyer meet.


**Liquor Love**

**Pairing:- **Sawyer/Juliet  
**Inspired by:- **a dream. I know, lame right?  
**Title:- **Liquor Love  
**Summary:- **"You search for meaning in those eyes, because you know those eyes are the closest to a meaning your life is going to get." Juliet/Sawyer one shot set in the sideways world if the hospital encounter hadn't happened.  
**A/n:- **I've not used second person before, so this is new for me. But I sort of wrote this in my head, if that makes sense, first and it made more sense in the second person. But it's unlikely I'll use this point of view again so enjoy the moment, lol.

X-X-X

You gaze around you, filled with a strange sort of contempt for each individual here. Smells of liquor, with varying degrees of strength to each smell, surrounds you, but you find you like it. It is, after all, a habitat you're not unused to.

You collapse on a bar stool and order a shot of something – you're never entirely sure of what. It's a routine you've gotten yourself into of going into a bar, looking up at the bartender and grunting, "Give me a shot of anything." Sometimes it's quite nasty the stuff you fling down your throat – a blend of vile ingredients which, when forced down you, does odd things to your body. Sometimes it hastens the process of getting drunk; mostly, it has you rushing for the toilet, so that you can cleanse your body of this demonic substance.

The bartender hands you something which looks like a sullied down coke and, for a brief second, you wonder if you've been here so many times, you're being taken for a ride. Then you sniff it and immediately wrench your head back. It smells foul and looks revolting – it's the perfect drink.

You've had a bad day you're not going to lie to yourself. You had expected the day to run quite smoothly, what with the capture of three criminals, but it hasn't. What it has resulted in is the escape of the aforementioned criminals, you being rendered virtually useless by a pair you were damn sure didn't speak a word of English and that _stupid_ machine eating up your last dollar, meaning you literally had to take the time and the effort to get the dregs of your cash from your bank just to pay for the drink which would make all of that disappear.

Not for the first time, you realise that your life pretty much has no purpose, no direction, and it could easily have depressed you…if you cared.

You're on about your third shot of this vile but wonderful substance, when you notice someone sitting about a bar stool away from you. The first thing you notice is the fact her hair is vibrant blonde. Not that you've never done a blonde before, but this one seems different somehow, challenging almost. You notice the frown lines etched on her face, the turned down corners of her lips, the less than happy look inside her eyes…

Most of all, you notice the tinge of the familiar in something unfamiliar.

She orders gin and tonic, a drink you wouldn't have associated with her. She seems sharply cut, well kept and all that jazz, so to see her in a place which might as well be a home for lowlifes like you, people with shattered pasts and distorted futures, is a shock. Judging by the frown on her face, you assume she's here for the same reason you are – to drink away the troubles of the day.

"You staring 'cause I'm blonde and looking to get some, or just because I'm a woman in a bar?"

Her voice completely throws you; it's deeper than you expected, yet soft at the same time. There's a tone of regret interwoven in there, which is to be expected else she wouldn't be here, turning you down before you've even made plans to screw her.

"Neither," you respond, turning your eyes to your empty glass. "And I ain't starin' at ya."

"Sure you aren't."

She can master sarcasm, which is an added bonus in your eyes. You have an incredibly hot woman sitting near you, who speaks your language and can make herself at home in an incredibly reassuring environment to you. There's one thing stopping you from moving next to her, engaging her in conversation and then making your move on her.

You swear you know her somewhere, which is always a bad feeling to feel. You start to question yourself, wondering if you've maybe screwed her before. Maybe she's one of those chicks you picked up in the days before you decided to turn your life around, one of those chicks you charmed, screwed and then abandoned like a piece of trash. Maybe that's the reason behind the cold look in her eyes when she appraises you.

"So what?" you quip, wanting to provoke a reaction from her.

"Excuse me?" she returns, raising her eyebrows and staring you down.

"So what if I were starin'?" you continue. "Does it bother ya?"

She leaps off her bar stool and, for a brief second, you wonder if you've pushed her far enough that she's going to smack you one. You'd deserve it, but you don't want to get into that kind of situation. You're enjoying the fire in her eyes, however, the fire which seems to tell you she can handle herself. There's almost a part of you which has seen this type of fire before, and the image of the brunette with the freckles crosses your mind…

But at least you _know_ you've not screwed her; most of the girls you've picked up have been young, dumb and easy to bed. You would've remembered picking _her_ up, would've remembered the challenge of trying to win someone as difficult as her over.

"No," she replies, completely throwing you yet again. "I just don't think I'm your type."

"Oh yeah? And what's my 'type'?" you ask, suddenly guarded.

"No idea," she replies breezily. "But I don't hook up with random guys in bars and you…Don't take it personally, but you look like the kind of guy who does."

"Hook up with random guys?" you quote, a smile crossing your lips. "How do I not take that personally? You're callin' me gay _and_ a tart."

A horrified look crosses her face as her words catch up to her. She stifles her mouth and suddenly starts laughing. You find her laugh mesmerising, the way parents find a baby's laughter mesmerising, and you sense she doesn't laugh very often. So you find yourself staring at her, almost starting to laugh alongside her as she leans her head against the bar to calm herself down.

"How many o' those you had, Blondie?" you enquire.

"Just the one," she says, after calming down. "Blondie? Seriously? That's the lamest nickname I've ever heard."

You smile at her, and it's a genuine smile for a change. Sometimes you smile only because you want to put a brave face on things and sometimes you smile because the only other option is crying, and you're certainly man enough to prevent _that_ from happening. But you know you're alone in the world, and hunting down a faceless man who ruined your life is your only purpose. Being a cop is the only adventure really, and even that can seem tedious sometimes.

You lean over, suddenly, attempting to summon the bartender with your eyes rather than your mouth – because you're _just_ that lazy – and you suddenly find yourself crashing against her clumsily. Her warm flesh, exposed due to the cut of fabric on her dress, presses against yours, and your whole world dissolves.

Men in beige jumpsuits; nights underneath the stars; yellow flowers; waking up surrounded by blonde hair; hands gripping tight and letting go; you sobbing and screaming down into a shaft. These images flash before your eyes and, as much as you don't want them to, they haunt you.

So you do what you always do in that situation – you order more to drink.

You devour shot after shot, simply because you're a coward. You're scared to think about those images, scared of what might surface if you searched deep within your memory and your heart for the meaning of those images.

"Steady on, sailor," the woman says, putting a steady hand on his shoulder. "You're going to…"

You notice her face suddenly goes chalk white and the hand on your shoulder, which you notice is shaking, slowly withdraws. She seems to stare at him – I mean really _stares_ – and you stare back, focusing on her eyes. You search for meaning in those eyes, because you know those eyes are the closest to a meaning your life is going to get. You realise you _know _her; you've memorised the shape of her body, her face, the enigmatic expressions on her face. You've already worked her out, in another life, and you've already felt every emotion under the sun for her – hate, confusion, understanding, respect, _love._

You loved her…and you lost her.

Simultaneously, you both reach for each other's hands, searching for more like curious babies. You want to know the start and the finish, and everything in between.

Her hand is lost in yours, yet you cradle it your chest like a baby. More wonderful moments cross your mind, moments you can now proudly call _memories._ The two of you sitting underneath a dock; the first time you told her you loved her; the endless moments you spent exploring each other physically and emotionally; watching her fall and feeling so _helpless_; kissing her bloodied lips one last time and watching her pass away in front of your eyes.

"You're going to…" she murmurs, an incredulous smile on her face.

"Going to what?" you ask, realising she _remembers_ too.

Suddenly, she launches herself at you, her lips crushing themselves against you. You don't know what to do; she's everywhere, her lips kissing every bit of visible flesh. But you realise this is the woman you loved and lost. So, you kiss her back fiercely, holding the back of her head so you can deepen the kiss without you both losing control. You've ended up doing _that_ before.

"It worked," she murmurs against your lips.

You break apart; you use this moment to study her. Her eyes sparkle with tears and you feel some sort of moisture in yours. She looks the same, except…Has she always been this _radiant_, this astoundingly beautiful?

"What worked?" you ask, staring into her eyes. "Juliet…"

She starts, and you realise you've not said each other's names.

"Juliet…" You relish the name on your tongue; the name provokes emotion, it inspires love and makes you feel alive again.

"We should get some coffee sometime," she announces, right there, out of the blue.

"What? I would, but I spent my last dollars on, well, this," you reply, holding up a shot glass as evidence of your lack of finance.

"We can go Dutch…"

You remember hearing those words with her dying breath. You can feel her broken body in your arms and feel the hot tears drip down your face. Love is painful, you realise. When she…died…you felt so horrible, so completely empty, you forgot how to live. You forgot how to _function_ without her, because for so long she'd been by your side.

"Kiss me, James."

Hearing her say your name brings you to life. You've been called many names – Sawyer, Jim, Ford – but James is the name which has always been associated with her. She's never called you Sawyer – except the odd time she's been completely pissed off with you. Funnily enough, you remember rarely calling her Juliet. It's always been Blondie or, if you really wanted to piss her off, Jules.

"You got it, Blondie," you reply, turning your head to study her.

You're afraid she'll disappear right before you, which explains the sudden rush of kisses, the rush to order a cab and the somewhat wild entrance to a motel room, where you spend the next hours remembering each other in very explicit ways. Your hands never leave her body; you always have to be touching her, because you know you let her slip away last time.

When it comes to the next step, somehow you both know what to do. You don't question each other because questioning means doubt. You both know what happened the last time doubt fed through the cracks of your already strained relationship – and it resulted in you watching her fall into the darkness.

You tighten your grip when you link hands, knowing you lost her once and don't intend to do so again. She tightens hers, presumably for the same reason. You remember your last days of this 'other life', days spent curled up in your bed, crying over _House on the Prairie_ just because you missed home- home, by definition, being anywhere with Juliet.

In the end, you disappeared not because of old age – not even close, as a matter of fact – but because you stupidly tried to do the right thing and got in the middle of a pub brawl, which, for once, hadn't been caused by you. You felt yourself being knocked to the ground, and the fall had only brought back excruciating memories, and your head had met the cold, hard ground.

When your eyes next opened, you were in a completely different world. A world where you had never been a conman, where you'd never crashed on that island and where your life had never been completely been turned around by a blonde stranger who'd gone from shocking you – literally – to loving you.

You evaluate both worlds carefully, all the while making sure she's still beside him, and decide the first world was best.

Why?

Well, the reason for that conclusion is standing right next to you, holding you hand and smiling sweetly up at you with such love it makes your heart burst with joy.


End file.
